


Brothers

by daynight



Series: Telegraph Avenue [9]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Record Store, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Easy Company Troopers are preparing to play their first show after reuniting, Bill Guarnere is up for a visit and Babe Heffron has written a song that's got everyone talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> obviously, i mean no offence to the real guys in any shape or form, this is all silly nonsense based on TV depictions.

He'd been there in his dorm room-cum-studio for hours, trying to work on his newest composition for class and Babe had finally completed it, a melancholy little instrumental tune inspired by the sea in the winter. However, he didn't feel satisfied. It wasn't enough. Something was eating at him. He glared at the surface of the DVD case. ‘The 400 Blows, a masterpiece of French new wave’, the blurb read.  It was lying on his desk as if put there nonchalantly, mindlessly, without much thought. The many blurred fingerprints across its glossy surface would suggest otherwise. He'd watched it at least three times, trying to find meaning, trying to untangle an enigma. Still nothing. No key to unlock, to decipher the sad smile of the bartender that never reached his eyes.

Sighing, Babe reopened his laptop. He wasn't done yet, that was obvious. It was time for a musical exorcism and his deck would function as the psychiatrists couch might, a place to pour out his annoying longing. A way to get all that feeling out without compromising a fragile friendship. He chewed his lip, inspiration flowing in when he thought of white hands and a loping walk in worn black jeans. A gentle smile and a subtle, private joke. Composing a sweet, almost hymnal backing beat that seemed perfectly suited, Babe began to work.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

"Wow, someone didn't get enough sleep." Remarked Nixon as Babe groggily entered the record store to begin his shift, scrubbing at his eyes. "Our bad habits here aren't rubbing off on you are they?"

 Babe gave him a tight smile, straightening his 5 panel hat. Nixon had been hanging out at the shop a lot more recently since he fixed the studio in the back and moved back into the upstairs flat with Mr Winters (who knew they were a thing?). Liebgott, forced to room with Malarkey, still hadn’t forgiven him.

"Stayed up a little late making some music."

Nixon cocked a thick eyebrow, looking up from his iPhone.

"For school? You shouldn't work so hard at that shit you know."

Nixon regarded school as an excuse to party as much as possible without work really coming into the equation. Easy stuff for a trust fund baby like him to say.

"Nah. Some of my own stuff, just got caught up, y'know?"

"Really? Let's hear it." Babe sometimes forgot that Nixon was a producer too, far more experienced than him and currently recording and mixing Easy Company's new album, a rip roaring rock exploration with some tiptoeing into soul and folk. Not really Babe's thing (he was more [Purity Ring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btqAHQJ-jJQ) than [Pink Floyd](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R0sw2CgysWY)) but undeniably powerful, pump-up stuff. The kind of driving, heavy music that could motivate you to go fight a war or jump out of a plane after one listen.

"I dunno..."

"Come on, I'm not gonna make fun of you. I'll give you constructive comments."

Shrugging noncommittally, Babe set his laptop down in front of Nixon and gingerly pressed play, pulling at his backpack straps awkwardly and looking at his ratty Vans whist the song, hauntingly electronic, came through the tinny MacBook speakers. Babe wasn’t that embarrassed about his voice, he could carry a tune fairly well (he had been in the convent school choir for 6 years, after all) and his friends at college sometimes (very flatteringly) compared his stuff to [James Blake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6p6PcFFUm5I) or, god forbid, [Bon Iver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bo6lKQYVUBU). It was just that these were _his_ lyrics.  He shot a quick glance at Nixon, who was creasing his brow in a quizzical expression, hand on his chin. _He fucking hates it._

"I like it."

"For serious?"

"Yeah."

"You're not shitting me?" Nixon gave Babe a sardonic grin.

"Am I the type to shit anyone? I think the vocals need a better mic though. Why don't you use the studio? You know how everything works right? You helped me install most of it. I'll mind the store."

“Thanks, that’s actually really kind, boss!”

Nixon laughed and patted him on the back.

“Don’t mention it. Thank Dick, he’s got me treating all my little minions better. He’s even made me apologise to Joe for taking his apartment.”

“Did he…accept?” A snort and a shake of the head.

“Hell no.”

Babe grinned and made his way to the studio in the back, excited for the day ahead.

After finishing up in the studio and running the song through for Nixon’s approval between customers (whom Nixon regarded with weary boredom), Babe received two more reasons to be excited. Firstly, Nixon candidly informed him that Easy Company’s highly anticipated newest album (draped in secrecy) was almost ready for release and that they would be performing a celebratory show at The Batallion that Friday to reveal their new music to both their friends and a select group of music journalists. After this bombshell, Babe also received a Facebook message to inform him that his best friend in the entire world, ‘Wild Bill’, an on-the-rise party DJ and Philly hero, was coming to the west coast to play a couple gigs, so could they meet up for a few days, Thursday through Sunday, and catch up? He eagerly replied, fingers fumbling on the keys, with an enthusiastic ‘fuck yessss!!!’ and a ton of emojis to illustrate his joy. The Easy Company show would be the best possible introduction to Babe’s new life on the west side and he couldn’t wait for him to meet all his Cali friends. Bill was quite the character but undeniably likeable.

He couldn’t wait for Bill to see **him** , either. Babe hadn’t really told anyone about this thing he had going on, he thought he had been remarkably subtle about it, but he knew Bill might be the one to understand. He’d know what to do. He always did.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

George Luz was sat cross legged on Malarkey’s couch, listening to Webster and Liebgott argue about something or other in Joe’s chaotic room (“they’re stupendous marine animals, not killing machines!” was the only decipherable snippet he could catch in between the shouting) and smoking an expertly rolled joint (how else was he meant to get some chill around here?). His laptop, from which he was transmitting the latest of his popular tweets, was balanced across his be-sweatpanted lap. He typed out a new tweet, this time foregoing his usual meme or joke for a little hint about the possible new album from Easy Company Troopers to titillate fans, a grin on his face. A ping sounded and he noticed a new email in his inbox from his oft-grumpy but mostly fun band manager, Nixon.

‘Hey G,’ It read. ‘Babe, my favourite shop boy (please feel free to inform Liebgott) has recorded a little song and I think it’s actually pretty decent? Might have some traction? Play it to Joe and the boys for an opinion. Hope you kids are being good before your show, much love, Nix. P.S. Some great news for you, Dick’s invited Buck Compton from his L.A. Battalion bar down for our gig’. That made Luz smile, Buck Compton had been a friend of the band for a long time and it would be great to see him there, supporting them. He moved his cursor lazily over to the attached mp3 and double clicked it, intrigued.

The song started out nice, melodic kind of dreamy electronic shit with a weirdly sad tone. Luz nodded his head along slowly. The vocals kicked in and Luz was fully jamming, eyes half closed. Nixon was right, it was very decent. Babe had a pretty nice voice for a squeaky little Philly kid and his production skills were not to be sniffed at. In his usual haze and enjoying the ambient sounds, it took a few minutes for the lyrics to totally sink in.

“Red Cross…” Luz’s eyes widened as realization struck and he hastily paused the song.

“GUYS! Guys! Get the fuck in here!” He shouted from his position on the couch, feeling positively gleeful. “You gotta listen to this!”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Liebgott (Apparently a former taxi driver as well as a former barber - Babe sometimes wondered what other various professions he had mastered in his past lives) was kind enough to drive Babe to the bus station to pick up Bill in Luz’s filthy, beat up old car. He did insist that Babe took one of his shifts in payment, but Babe decided to count it as an act of thoughtfulness from his friend/colleague. Babe spotted Bill, stood on the curb looking sharp in a Henley and clean jeans, easily carrying a heavy looking travel bag like it was made of feathers, almost immediately. Bill always commanded the eye’s attention, with his assured nature and razor sharp jaw. He swung open the passenger door excitedly.

“Ay!”

Bill’s face lit up.

“Ay!” He jogged up to the side of the car as Babe clambered out, grabbing him for a close hug and a manly chest bump. “Great to see you, you little bastard!” He looked over Babe, dressed in a dark Hawaiian skate shirt and cut off shorts. “You look good, man. Great haircut. Tan as hell. Didja get taller or somethin’? My lil’ boy is all grown up!” Bill’s Philly accent was as thick as freshly mixed cement and his smile was like a sunbeam. It was pretty pathetic but Babe felt a little choked up to be near him again.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you so much.”

“Missed you too, buddy, missed you too.” Bill fondly knuckled him on the side of the head.

“Hey.” Growled Liebgott. “This is cute and all but I’m in a no parking zone. Move your asses.” Babe shrugged at Bill, grinning, then pushed him towards the car door and climbed into the seat next to him.

“Nice car.” Remarked Bill, pushing the rubbish on the floor out of the way with his foot.

“Fuck you.” Replied Joe, clearly not appreciative of Bill’s sarcasm. “It ‘aint even mine.”

Bill burst out laughing and nudged Babe.

“I like him.“ he stage-whispered. “Stroppy madam, just like you said.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” Cried Babe, stifling a chuckle. He felt so light. Funny how all his problems seemed to disappear when Bill was around.

 

* * *

 

 

Bill strutted around Babe’s dorm room like he owned the place, drinking a bottle of water and nodding whilst Babe played him his song, tentatively named ‘Red Cross’, all the way through. Babe spun in his chair restlessly.

“What do you think?”

“I like it, I really like it. It’s got a-“ He paused, pondering.”A _wistful_ vibe to it. I like the new direction you’re going Babe. That shit is tight.”

Praise from Bill was the highest praise that Babe could merit. He beamed and crossed his hands over his stomach, reassured.

“How’s your stuff going?”

“You know I’m still on that drum and base party hype, dude! Trying to work in a bit more of a European feel these days though. Bit of that garage style, y’know.”

Babe nodded enthusiastically. Bill sat down on his bed and stretched out his legs, shooting Babe a dazzling grin.

“Now when are we gonna get to that bar that you’re always droning on about, eh?”

 

* * *

 

 

Babe and Bill, laughing and nudging each other, made their way to the Battalion after a quick look into Nix Records so Babe could show his best friend where he worked. Bill highly approved, although he was more a party on a yacht guy than a run-down record store kind of guy. They entered the bar, Bill straightening his leather jacket then loudly announcing that he ‘had to take a piss.’ Babe approached the usual table that was inhabited by the Easy Company Troopers, who were all looking at him with the strangest expressions, a hybrid of total mirth and slight concern.

“Hey Babe.” Piped up Perconte. “Nixon sent us your song.” George Luz looked like he was about to bust a gut controlling his laughter.

“Yeah?” Replied Babe, slightly perplexed.

“It’s real good, dude. “ Started Perconte. “It’s just – “

“Babe this is really not subtle. Like, really.” Marlakey stated firmly.

“I don’t get that you mean.” Babe was refusing to meet anyone’s eye, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That song. Man, it’s super obvious who it’s for.”

“It’s not for anyone. It’s like, an analogy.”

“Alrighty then…”

“Whatever you say…”

“Hey!” Bill emerged from the bathroom. He ran up to Babe and pounced on his back, almost toppling him over whilst the rest of the band looked on, bemused. Babe laughed and shook him off.

“Guys, this is my best boy from Philly, Bill.”

Bill extended his arm.

“Nice to meetcha.” The guys, still mysteriously smiling, all shook Bill’s hand then directed them towards the bar for their next round whilst an excitable Bill trapped Babe in a grappling headlock to punish him for ‘acting out’ after Luz explained that Babe wasn’t actually allowed to even be in the bar due to the fact he was underage.

Bill sat down at the bar, his arm still around Babe’s neck, grinning with all his teeth. Luz, giving Babe a weird, suggestive look, called loudly for the absent Doc, who presently emerged from a backroom. Bill, who had been distracted by ruffling Babe’s ginger hair, now looked up, aghast, and stared at Doc as he padded over. Roe seemed harried, running a hand through his own short, spiky black hair, frowning. Babe felt that familiar brand of fuzzy nervousness in his stomach he always felt whenever he saw him. This feeling of apprehension was amplified as Bill suddenly lit up, looking like a kid who had just seen a shiny new toy. Babe recognised his expression. It was the same one Bill always wore whenever he noticed something that he could tease Babe mercilessly about.

“Oh my god!” Bill muttered with incredulous amusement to Babe, head still locked under his arm. “Red Cross!”

Babe felt his face go about ten shades redder and it wasn’t from the unforgiving way Bill’s muscular arm was wrapped around his cranium. He should have known. Ol’ Gonorrhea don’t miss nothin’.

“Fuck off!” He spat between clenched teeth, eyes darting towards Roe, checking to see whether he’d noticed anything awry. Of course he hadn’t, eyes downcast as he poured drinks, drumming ivory fingers against the counter. Bill lowered his face so his mouth was close to Babe’s ear.

“You’re an open book, pal.”

“See, even people who don’t even know Doc know that fuckin’ song is devoted to him.” Malarkey, who had overheard, whispered to Perconte.

“Sappy bastard.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, one of the main reasons that Dick Winters had invited Buck Compton down to watch the opening show was to have management back-up. He had kindly allowed both Carwood Lipton, the restaurant manager, and Ron Speirs, the night manager, to go away on some weird camping trip up in the mountains together for the weekend. Babe tried to imagine the threatening and mysterious Speirs in a checked shirt, utility shorts and hiking boots and had to bite back a laugh. At least Lipton could be sure that if they were to have the misfortune to run into a bear, there would be no cause for alarm. Lipton would probably come back home in a very luxe bear-fur coat.

Buck Compton was on great terms with George Luz, Malarkey, all of the Easy boys really and seemed to take a great shine to their visitor, Bill Guarnere. In fact, when the bar was supposed be closing up and all the customers, aside from the band, Bill and Babe had left, he proposed a late night poker game. Winters just shrugged and let Nixon drag him back home, Nixon telling the guys to ‘enjoy themselves’ with a wink. Doc Roe seemed none too pleased but didn’t raise any concerns, silently clearing the bar.

“I’m gon’ leave for the night.” Roe, slinging his backpack on, approached Buck Compton.

“Ah, alright.”

“You reckon you’ll be ok closing up?”

Doc looked stricken. Buck Compton clapped Roe on the back heartily with a reassuring laugh.

“We’ll only be another hour or so! Don’t worry, I can close up the LA bar fine, I’ll have no problem here.”

“Okay.” Roe didn’t look sure but he exited anyway, not noticing Babe’s pathetic puppy eyes, practically begging him to stay.

 

* * *

 

 

“Buck, why have you taken Babe’s clothes? It’s kind of disturbing. If we were gonna play strip poker we should have invited some girls. I’d rather see that than Babe’s skinny ass.”

Buck flashed them all a blinding Hollywood smile.

“He’s so broke it’s all he had left. It was Luz’s idea. He thought it would be funny.”

“And it is! Look how sad he is!” Luz piped up excitedly.

Babe was shivering, distraught, dressed only in socks and his boxers, staring forlornly at his shitty hand of cards.

“I don’t understand.”

In the early morning, Roe entered the bar to start his shift. Babe yelped and wrapped his arms demurely around himself, flushing crimson.  Roe paused and stared at the odd, frozen scene as the group all blinked at him like animals caught in the glare of a headlight. Buck was surrounded by banknotes, a laptop, clothes, sneakers and wearing all of Perconte’s watches, a paper hat perched on his head like a crown. George Luz had a strip of tape across his mouth, obviously his incessant chatter had become too unbearable. Bill was drinking beer out of a boot. Malarkey was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the table like some sort of poker genie, conducting the sordid events. Even Joe Toye, the chef, had joined in, for some reason brandishing his brass knuckles at Perconte on the verge of a tussle. They were all chewing on cigars.

Face straight as ever, Roe turned away with a clipped “Clean up.”

As soon as he disspeared to a backroom, they all scrambled frantically to correct everything, wary of his legendary wrath. Babe was dying of embarrassment, whining ‘Nooooo’ and desperately pulling his clothes back on, much to the annoyance of all involved. They proceeded to chastise him.

“Shut up, Babe, he doesn’t give a shit.”

“What are you, a Victorian lady?”

“Hey Babe, take your boxers off too, that might actually get his attention.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Cried Babe, still bright red.

Roe popped out from a back room, towel slung over his shoulder. He surveyed the now-spotless table and the nervous people surrounding it.

“Hmm.” It appeared to do. The guys collectively breathed a sigh of relief. “You should all go now.”

Slightly cowed, they began to shuffle out, a little worse for wear as the panic subsided and their hangovers became a more pressing concern.

“And Edward” Babe slowly turned around, cringing. Gene only called him 'Edward' when he was angry with him, like that time he spilled a glass of water on the floor and Joe Toye tripped up in it and threatened to kill him.

“Your shirt is on backwards.”

 

* * *

 

 

After the embarrassing debacle of the late night poker game, Babe was fairly reluctant about going back to The Batallion and humiliating himself further. He didn’t really have a choice however, as it was Friday and the day of the gig. Bill took him for breakfast at Harry’s café, impressing Harry with funny anecdotes, then they long boarded down the streets on Babe’s rather rickety boards for a couple hours, grabbing lunch at a diner then showering and preparing for the show, reminiscing and teasing the shit out of each other all the while.

They arrived early for the gig, to get backstage behind the newly erected stage area to see the band. They all seemed to be buzzing with nervous excitement, taking turns to sip from a small canteen of whiskey. Liebgott was slicking and combing back his retro quiff in the mirror, cigarette tucked behind one ear, whilst Webster tuned his guitar for him.  He didn’t seem worried at all by the entire thing, as unaffected as ever, scowling slightly at his reflection. Webster was, however, incredibly harried, fussing and hurrying about whilst Liebgott shushed him.

Nixon entered the room.

“Everyone’s ready for you guys. Hey, Don.”

Malarkey, clad in a grey vest, turned around with wide eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Malarkey, mouth pursed and eyes hollow, shrugged. He hadn’t played in public since the band broke up and his life fell apart and clearly felt apprehensive.

“I’ve got a surprise for you that may cheer you up.” Nixon indulgently smirked. “Guys?” Malarkey blinked and craned his neck to see two figures enter behind Nixon. It was Skip Muck, Malarkey’s best friend, and Penkala, his business partner. Without even looking at Malarkey’s face, the change in the room was obvious. He almost dropped his keyboard, which he was about to carry out to the stage and rushed up to his two friends, embracing them tightly.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“Nixon told us you needed us.”

Malarkey laughed in utter disbelief and the rest of the band, also happy to see their old companions, joined the hug, patting an emotional Don on the back.

“C’mon you pussies.” Stated a smiling Liebgott. ‘We gotta fuckin’ show to play.”

The show began, with Malarkey as happy as anything and effusive as a firework. Leibgott strutted to the front of the stage and introduced them in a bored, cynical manner, before strumming the opening few chords to their first song – ‘Red Blooded American Boys’ as Perconte’s crashing, thrashing drums entered the fray and the entire bar filled with thrumming, relentless rhythm.

Smashing their way through their roster of hits, including songs from their first EP, Easy Company Troopers finally closed with the almost melancholy ‘Brothers’, a tribute to the friendship and loyalty that they had found with each other. Sweating profusely but wild and ecstatic, they listened to the resounding cheers of their friends and the invited journalists. It was a complete success. As Webster approached with a proud smile on his face to give Joe a water bottle, he was surprised by Joe grabbing him by both shoulders and pulling him into a big kiss in front of all their friends, prompting yet more cheering from the crowds. Easy Company Troopers was back, better and tougher than ever.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Somewhat overtaken with the loud, unyielding music and the alcohol fuelled celebrations that he was automatically excused from, Babe Heffron decided to take a breather. He exited the bar through the back door and sat down on the curb, relieved by the refreshing sensation of the cold night air. He sat, humming his favourite Easy Company tune (‘Servile Scum’, in part written by Webster) and looking out into the neighbourhood for a few minutes, enjoying the calm.

“Heffron.”

Babe heard a soft, rough accented voice call his name. He turned in the direction of the noise from his place on the curb.

Gene Roe padded over from the back door of The Battalion, a tiny smile on his features. He was lit up by the distant neons of the bar, orange and red creating a halo around his dark head. Babe felt confused, what was he doing out here?

Gene, as if answering his silent question, held up his hands. In one fist was a Budweiser, in the other a diet coke.

"Beer for me?" Babe attempted a hopeful, cartoonish expression that seemed to work on everyone else but him.

"Pshhhhh. Keep tryin' it and I might get you banned." Said fondly, without conviction out of the side of his mouth. Babe wheezed a laugh. He liked it when Gene joked around. 

Gene put his beer down on the pavement deliberately and Babe tried not to watch his jeans strain with the movement. He then produced a bottle opener from his back pocket and uncapped the coke, handing it over to Babe. Wiping his hand, damp from condensation, on his thigh, Gene settled down next to Babe on the curb and swiftly opened his own bottle, taking a long swig. Watching him out of the corner of his eye (throat moving elegantly to gulp, slight moisture on his upper lip, subsequently licked off by a quick pink tongue, _Jesus Christ!_ ) Babe hastily did the same.  He was unsure what to say, what to do, not wanting to fuck up this perfect moment like he knew he would. The sugary, ultra-sweet coke fizzed down his throat. Honestly, his whole body felt like it was fizzing.

Gene had come out especially for him, he had sought him out, he had thought of him. Of him. It was almost inconceivable. Or maybe it wasn't and Babe shouldn't be getting so excited over each and every tiny thing, like it was a big deal when it was in fact entirely inconsequential. Maybe Doc just felt sorry for him, out here by himself whilst Bill raised hell inside. Babe would take it, whatever it was. Anything from him was a blessing.

Shifting his legs on the curb, Gene reached into his front pocket and retrieved filters, papers and tobacco. He began to silently roll a cigarette.

“Bad habit.” He said, as if to himself. Babe nodded dumbly, enthralled at his quick white fingers and the way he licked the paper before closing it up and putting the cigarette in his mouth. He pulled an incongruently bright yellow zippo lighter out of his pocket and lit it with a casual, cool ease that Babe could never hope to achieve.

Gene must have been in an oddly conversational mood as he spoke again, in between a long drag at his cigarette. Babe watched the smoke stream out of his mouth, trying to capture the image in his mind.

“That was a good show tonight, eh?”

“Yeah. They sounded great.” Babe smiled, kicking at the curb. He was normally the one who had everything to say, who rambled on and on like a little kid whilst the Doc just nodded and listened, barely participating. Tonight, with the stars shining in the indigo sky and Gene looking so god damn luminous, pale and shiny in a cloud of smoke, he just couldn’t find his words. Gene exhaled again then turned slightly, flicking off the ash. Before he could stop himself, Babe found words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Can I?” He gestured towards the cigarette. Gene smiled gently.

“Sure.”  Their fingers brushed, electric shock, whilst Gene handed over the cigarette. Babe, hands fumbling, almost shivering, brought it to his lips. He took a drag. He’d smoked cigarettes a little in Philadelphia, Bill’s dregs before he quit, friends of friends behind the warehouse after the party, but none that tasted quite like this. Reluctantly, he exhaled towards the stars and passed it back, feeling the chill of Gene’s fingertips contrast with the heat of the filter. He stretched his bare legs out on the road. Cigarette in hand and still smiling, Gene imitated him, his legs just a little shorter than Babe’s own. Feeling daring, Babe knocked his faded sneaker up against Gene’s black leather boots, nudging with his toe. Surprisingly, Gene nudged back. He held up the cigarette for Babe to take.

“Here you go, Heffron.” Babe inhaled then breathed out smoke with an exasperated laugh, shaky from the thrill.

“How many times do I gotta tell you, it's Babe.” Gene rolled his eyes, almost laughing too.

“Just gimme the goddamn cigarette.” Babe stuck out his tongue and handed it back. Gene took one more puff and then crushed it on the sidewalk. Their hands were so close. Just an inch apart. If Babe were to just…the way things were right at that moment, he didn’t think Gene would mind. He might even like it. He could…he should.

He started to move his nervous hand to cover Gene’s pale, steady one just as Bill swung out the backdoor.

“Yo! There you are! Hey, the after party just began and Nixon’s gonna make Mr Winters take a tequila shot!”

Bill wouldn’t normally be this obtuse, offering Babe his space, but it seemed that in his merriment he failed to notice the significance of the moment and subsequently shattered it. Before Babe could even blink, Doc had collected himself and heaved up from the pavement.

“I better get back.”

“Ah-" 

He disappeared behind Bill, rushing back to the party, leaving Babe alone in the night with only Gene’s bright yellow lighter, left on the curb, for company. Sighing, he tucked it into his shirt pocket. At least when he looked at it he would know he didn’t make that moment up.

“Shit.” Babe said to himself.

They were so fucking close.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

**RED CROSS**

 

Even if I pray I could not see how,

Anything they send will be better,

Nothing could be better,

No one more holy than you.

Palest face in the California sun,

Falling over myself for a smile.

Just stay and talk here for a while.

Red cross, healing all wounds,

Small smile and modest power,

You saved my life,

You saved my life,

Medecine in the darkest hour.

 

You will never let me know,

What’s going on in your mind,

Do anything to make you laugh,

Someone like you is hard to find,

Blue black hair, blue black eyes,

You don’t speak, my heart lies,

Gentleness on your skin.

Red cross, healing all wounds,

Small smile and morphine voice,

You saved my life,

You saved my life,

You’ll always be my only choice.

 

I wish that you would let me know,

It doesn’t matter if you do,

I will stay and wait for you,

Living in my mind.

Softest spoken words,

Deep dark southern verse,

You’ve saved everything I cursed.

Red cross, healing all wounds,

Small smile and modest power,

You saved my life,

You saved my life,

Medicine in the darkest hour.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> o m g many apologies for the lateness of this chapter! feel free to reprimand this lazy mutt.
> 
> i imagine babe's music to sound like a slower, sadder version of [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_964dqQxQwY%0A)  
> and envisage easy company troopers to sound like a mix between [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o4uwk0gU-0o%0A) / [this! ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ngzC_8zqInk%0A)


End file.
